


Weathervane

by ClaraxBarton



Category: Gundam Wing
Genre: AU, Apartment hunting, Gift Fic, M/M, Spies!, all the things a great romance needs, art history!, this time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-30
Updated: 2017-09-30
Packaged: 2019-01-07 04:43:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12226002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClaraxBarton/pseuds/ClaraxBarton
Summary: Heero Yuy has been working in Oman for almost a year, tracking terrorist cells and working to eliminate potential threats, when he's given a new assignment - an asset. Tasked with cultivating Duo Maxwell, Heero finds the situation both easier and far more complicated than his usual ops.





	Weathervane

**Author's Note:**

  * For [luvsanime02](https://archiveofourown.org/users/luvsanime02/gifts).



A/N: For Ro, to continue the Birthday Week celebrations, but also to say thank you for all of these YEARS (years!!!) of being so freaking amazing.

 

A/N2: Speaking of, edited by the amazing Ro.

 

A/N3: I don’t write enough 1x2 fics, and certainly not enough for you, so here we go.

 

A/N4: Also, this is really close to my heart. This would have been - maybe, someday, still will be? - from  _ This Time _ . Set, obviously, in the section of the story that is a 1x2.

 

A/N5: I did  _ really _ minimal research for this so I am sorry if my ignorance offends.

 

Warnings: language, smut, angst, fluff

 

Pairings: 1x2

 

_ Weathervane _

 

**Oman. 2018**

 

As usual, Relena was having entirely too much fun knowing something Heero didn’t know.

 

It had started that morning, when he had arrived at the Embassy, and she gave him that smug, superior little smirk and asked him how his day was going. Asked him how his night had been. Asked him about the stray dog he had started feeding. The dog she wasn’t supposed to know about.

 

It had continued through lunch, as Heero spent the intervening hours catching up on the paperwork he had been putting off for as long as he could, filling out reports and debriefs and  _ expense reports _ until he was so fed up with the bureaucratic red tape that he escaped from his desk. And made the mistake of staying  _ at _ the Embassy to eat.

 

Relena joined him, of course. Smug smirk still curling the corners of her mouth. Blue eyes still glittering with amusement. She asked him about the last op. Asked him about a string of informants. Asked him about the water pressure in his apartment building. Asked him what he wanted for Christmas, in  _ July _ .

 

Finally, she found his breaking point when she asked if he had been on any dates recently.

 

“What do you know?” Heero demanded, tossing down his sandwich in disgust and glaring at her.

 

Relena gave him a wide-eyed look of innocence and wiped the corners of her mouth with her napkin before taking a sip of water.

 

“Well, Heero, I don’t even know how to begin answering that.”

 

He rolled his eyes.

 

“Cute.”

 

“Thanks.” She smoothed her hands down the sides of the dark, full-length and utterly shapeless dress she wore. “I got it on sale.”

 

He continued to glare at her. But Relena had been immune to that look since the first month of law school. And that had been five years ago.

 

“New mission coming up for you,” she finally said as they left the mess hall and stepped onto the elevator to go back up to his floor. “Make sure you come by my office before you leave.”

 

Which of course meant that Heero followed her to her office  _ immediately _ .

 

She sat in the plush chair behind her large, imposing desk, and while she was still smirking, some of the playful edge to the look had diminished.

 

Relena might like to tease him, but she was, above all else, serious about work.

 

She unlocked a drawer in her desk and pulled out a large manila envelope.

 

“You know that tensions with the Sultan have been increasing for the past several months.”

 

Heero gave her a look. He was aware.  _ Very _ aware. After all, he was the one gathering intel on the situation for her. 

 

“The Sultan has finally named his successor, Sayyid Asaad.”

 

Heero, of course, knew this too. The Sultan, Qaboos bin Said Al Said, despite several marriages, had produced no heirs. Once the news of his cancer was leaked to the press last year, the monarchy’s hold on power had become even more precarious. It had to be weighing heavily on Said’s mind that his successor, Sayyid, was only a few years younger than he was - and, of course, there was the matter of historical record regarding Said’s own succession to the throne back in 1970, when he had overthrown his own father. Sayyid had a son, Sayyid Taimur bin Asaad bin Tariq Al Said. He was young, healthy, and, if Heero’s informants were right, not all that eager to wait for the old guard to go quietly into the night.

 

“Yes,” Heero agreed, waiting for Relena to get to the point.

 

“Sayyid Asaad is the cultural minister.”

 

“Relena,” Heero sighed in aggravation, “I have  _ read _ the state department briefing on the government structure in Oman. What does a redundant lesson in succession politics have to do with my new mission?”

 

She gave him a hard look, lips pursed.

 

“It’s called background intelligence, Heero. Perhaps, if you bothered to pay more attention to it, we wouldn’t have quite so many explosions to explain away?”

 

He returned the look, refusing to apologize.

 

_ Maybe _ his last mission could have been handled in a more covert manner, but the parameters had been to destroy a weapons dump. And he had definitely accomplished that.

 

Relena sighed.

 

“We still haven’t determined Sayyid’s - or his son’s - politics. The entire Arab Peninsula is a hotbed, and we don’t need another Yemen on our hands. We need to determine whether or not Sayyid - or his son - would be amenable to increased US interventions in the region, or if they intend to continue on the trend of destabilization in favor of maintaining their autocracy.”

 

“You want me to blow something up and see what kind of speech they make?” Heero quipped. 

 

Relena glared. Heero, in his capacity as a clandestine CIA operative, did far more than blow shit up - something Relena had teased him about for  _ years _ . His official cover, for the nine months he had operated out of Oman’s capital of Muscat, was as an engineer with an NGO working to install wireless infrastructure in rural, tribal areas. It meant he had reason to move around the country and neighboring countries; it also meant he had a good reason to keep visiting the Embassy - bureaucratic red tape. His  _ actual _ work had been using intelligence to target and disarm rebel and terrorist groups.  _ Sometimes _ by blowing things up.

 

“Sayyid - the  _ son _ \- started a new pet project last year. He’s determined to amass a collection of artwork to rival the Louvre.”

 

“He’ll need a few centuries,” Heero scoffed.

 

“Or a lot of money and no oversight - which is exactly what he has.”

 

“You want me to play art critic and see if he’s acquiring suitably democratic and capitalistic art?” It didn’t sound at  _ all _ like a good fit or like good intelligence.

 

“ _ No _ ,” Relena bit out. “Would you just  _ stop _ and let me finish?”

 

She looked genuinely irritated now, and Heero held up his hands to ward her off and straightened up in his seat.

 

“Continue.”

 

Relena huffed and finally tossed the envelope at him.

 

“We want you to cultivate this asset.”

 

Heero opened the envelope with a huff of his own.

 

He wasn’t, as Relena had pointed out time and time again, the  _ best _ at ‘people.’ The kind of assets that Heero was tasked with cultivating were typically the kind who were just one rung up from the terrorists he was typically tasked with eliminating. It was Relena, with her cover as a state department secretary, who got to cultivate the tame ones - the ones who weren’t one step away from shooting an American citizen in the back.

 

He wasn’t at all eager to start trying to cultivate some hashish dealer or gunrunner or-

 

The dossier had a full-color photograph stapled to the front of it, and Heero had to stare.

 

_ This _ was not the asset Heero was typically asked to cultivate.

 

The man was clearly a Westerner - he had lightly-tanned skin, vivid blue eyes and golden brown hair, worn long and loose in the photograph that looked like some kind of ID photo.

 

He also happened to be gorgeous, his wide lips curved in a smirk, his strong jawline a sharp contrast to his upturned nose and androgynous hair. 

 

Heero reluctantly flipped the dossier open, tearing himself away from the photograph.

 

“Duo Maxwell?”

 

“Yes. He’s an art historian - an expert in early modern restoration work.”

 

“He’s a little young to be an  _ expert _ ,” Heero pointed out, looking at the man’s date of birth. Four years younger than Heero. 

 

“Well, as near to an expert as they could lure to Oman,” Relena clarified. “Sayyid, the younger-”

 

“You’re going to need to figure out what to call him,” Heero interjected.

 

“Yes, I  _ know _ . Anyway, he’s been trying to get someone to curate this fantasy museum of his, and Maxwell seems to be the only person with halfway decent credentials who is even interested.”

 

Heero knew very little about art, or the art world. But he at least knew enough to recognize that the man’s  _ curriculum vitae _ \- printed out on several pages in front of him - was impressive.  _ Especially _ considering his age. Maxwell was more than ‘halfway decent.’

 

He had been an assistant curator at the Hermitage in St. Petersburg for eighteen months, and before that he had worked at the Louvre while also completing his doctorate in art history  _ and _ a joint degree in art conservation from the Sorbonne. Internships at the National Portrait Gallery and the Tate in London, at the Arnhem Museum in the Netherlands. Undergraduate work in both art history and studio art at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill.

 

Heero looked at those dates again.

 

Duo had been at UNC the same time that Trowa, Heero’s ex and one of the more dangerous memories he refused to dwell on, had attended the university. Heero had the unbidden and entirely unwelcome interest in whether or not they had known each other.

 

“So he’s some kind of  _ wunderkind _ ?” Heero flipped through the list of articles Maxwell had published.  _ Did the man never sleep? _

 

“Yes. And he’s been an ex-pat for long enough -  _ and _ just finished working in Russia - so we wanted to keep eyes on him.”

 

“You want me to make sure he isn’t a  _ Russian _ agent?” Heero asked incredulously.

 

“That is a remote possibility.  _ Very _ remote. But yes, that’s part of your mission. The larger part is this: Maxwell is in a unique position to cultivate Sayyid-”

 

“The younger,” Heero said for her, earning another glare.

 

“-and strengthen our position in the palace and in Oman. We  _ need _ to have a friendly face in the successor’s trusted circle. Maxwell seems personable and charming - we feel confident that, if he lasts, he can gain Sayyid’s -  _ both of them _ \- trust and favor. We need him as a stepping stone.”

 

“How is an engineer for a mass-comm NGO supposed to befriend an art historian?” Heero asked her.

 

She gestured to the dossier, and Heero sighed and continued flipping pages.

 

More background on Maxwell - the, by all accounts, estranged scion of a wealthy American family. He had been kicked out of a handful of elite east coast boarding schools before finally finishing at Le Rosey in Switzerland, one of the most premier boarding schools in the world. Then undergraduate work, internships, the Sorbonne and the Louvre, and then on to St. Petersburg. The ridiculous number of articles he had published. The complete lack of a personal life  _ whatsoever _ except-

 

Heero sighed as he saw the section that had been highlighted. It was, he was certain, one of the reasons Maxwell had taken a job in Oman - he had needed to get  _ out _ of Russia.

 

“Arrested for homosexual activity?” Heero read aloud. There was more - strings had been pulled, at the insistence of Maxwell’s family, and the charges dropped. “It’s not exactly legal to be out in Oman, Relena.”

 

She rolled her eyes again, a look that she  _ knew _ he hated.

 

“Yes, of course not, but it’s nothing like Russia, Heero. So long as you don’t fuck him in public, it won’t be a problem.”

 

“So long as I don’t- Relena.”

 

“Oh, come on, like he’d be so painful to look at?” She gestured to the front of the dossier again.

 

“How attractive he is isn’t the  _ point _ . You want me to seduce him.”

 

“If you won’t do it, maybe I can assign Smith to-”

 

“I didn’t say I wouldn’t do it,” Heero bit out. He hated Curtis Smith, and he didn’t like picturing the man’s smug face next to Maxwell’s. Hell, he didn’t like picturing Smith’s face next to  _ anyone’s _ .

 

Relena looked triumphant.

 

“Good. He’s coming by in an hour.”

 

“He’s-  _ You _ said-” Heero caught himself and gave up. As usual, Relena had manipulated him into a corner.

 

He sighed.

 

“Why is he coming by the Embassy?”

 

“He was given quarters in the palace but, apparently, he wants to have his own apartment. He contacted us a few days ago to help him sort it out.  _ You _ , as a fellow ex-pat, can take him around town to look at apartments.”

 

Relena was smiling brightly as she slid a list of addresses across the table towards him.

 

Heero glared at first the list, and then her.

 

“You want me to seduce Maxwell while I’m taking him apartment hunting?”

 

“See, I knew the background intel would help you figure out how to do this without explosions.”

 

-o-

 

Maxwell was late. Late enough that Heero wondered if he was still planning on dropping by the Embassy. Long enough that Heero’s continued presence  _ at _ the Embassy was earning some arched eyebrows. He just arched his own right back, and the various state department employees went back to work and likely muttered about him. 

 

There was a rumor, which Heero suspected Relena had started, that the two of them were engaged in a torrid affair. Heero was sure that lingering in her office for two hours was only adding fuel to  _ that _ fire.

 

It was nearly six when Maxwell finally arrived, long after the time when Heero could escort him to potential apartments, and the man looked haggard and irritated when he walked into Relena’s office.

 

And, rather unfairly, even more handsome in person despite that.

 

Maxwell was dressed in white linen pants, a light blue linen shirt and a thin gray scarf wound loosely around his neck. His hair was pulled back in a slightly disheveled tail, and he had a pair of sunglasses perched on top of his head.

 

“Hey, Relena, I’m so, so,  _ so _ sorry. Taimur just got this fucking  _ gorgeous _ Monet in today, and it was shipped in fucking  _ dyed _ paper, and the heat caused some of the ink to transfer, and it’s a complete fucking-”

 

Maxwell finally realized Heero was in the room.

 

“Shit. Uh. Sorry, am I interrupting something?”

 

Heero arched an eyebrow.

 

“So you  _ do  _ know words beside ‘fucking.’”

 

Maxwell’s cheeks turned a little pink, but he shrugged and offered Heero a slight, self-deprecating smirk.

 

“I can say it in French, Russian, Italian and Spanish, too.”

 

Heero snorted a laugh, and Maxwell’s eyes practically danced with delight at the reaction.

 

It made him even more attractive.

 

Behind her desk, Relena was looking smug. Heero shot her a look.

 

“Oh, right, sorry! Let me introduce you two! Duo, this is Heero Yuy. He’s an engineer with All-World Telecom. They’re an NGO working to set up wireless internet access points in the desert and remote towns across the Peninsula. Heero, this is Dr. Duo Maxwell. Duo’s only been in Oman for two weeks - he’s working with the Ministry of Culture to curate the new Museum collection.”

 

They shook hands, Heero letting his fingers linger against Maxwell’s wrist before pulling away.

 

Maxwell gave him a look and absently rubbed his wrist.

 

“Nice to meet you. Sorry that I’m so late, Relena. I guess… apartment-looking is probably a no-go?”

 

“Well, it is for today,  _ but _ Heero’s back in Muscat for a few days before he has to go out again, and I figured  _ he _ might be a great contact for you. He actually had to go through the apartment hassle himself when he first arrived last year, and he knows most of the neighborhoods better than I do.”

 

“Oh. Uh. Okay?” Maxwell turned to Heero with raised eyebrows, and Heero shrugged.

 

“It’s not a problem. Plus, it’s always good to have Relena owe me a favor. But it is probably too late to look at anywhere today.”

 

Maxwell’s shoulders sagged.

 

“Yeah. I figured.” He groaned and scrubbed at his face. “Yeah. Okay. Back to the palace, then. Uh, could I get your number? I’m not sure when I’ll be free again, but I really want out of that place.”

 

Heero pulled out his phone, opened his contacts, and entered Maxwell’s name. He passed the phone over, and the other man typed in his phone number.

 

Heero called him, and Maxwell nodded as he answered and then saved the number.

 

“Great. Thanks. I-”

 

He looked genuinely distraught about the prospect of going back to the palace, and Relena was doing that thing with her eyes that  _ she _ thought was discreet.

 

“We can’t go look at any of the apartments on Relena’s list, but I can at least drive you around town, show you the neighborhoods? We can see if there are any you immediately want to cross off?”

 

Maxwell hesitated, but then nodded.

 

“Yeah. I mean, if you don’t mind?”

 

Heero shrugged.

 

“I don’t.”

 

“Awesome. I appreciate it.”

 

Relena shooed them out of her office with a superior expression on her face that Heero chose to ignore. 

 

Heero ushered Maxwell into the battered SUV he had picked up last month after his last vehicle had met an untimely death, and they set off for the closest address on Relena’s list.

 

“So… you’re an engineer?”

 

“And you’re a curator?”

 

Maxwell shrugged one shoulder. 

 

“Not really. I mean, that’s what Taimur wants me to be but-”

 

“Taimur?”

 

“Right. Sorry. He’s the Vice Minister of Culture. His dad is the successor to the throne, so he’s… third in line, I guess? Anyway, he wants me to put together this huge collection that rivals anything in the West, and I mean,  _ so do I _ . But… he needs better brokers. He needs someone out there making sure that a fucking Monet isn’t almost fucking ruined because some asshat wrapped it like a goddamned birthday present.”

 

Heero felt his lips twitch, and he chanced a look over at Maxwell.

 

He was leaning against the passenger door, chin propped in one hand, starting out at the street. He looked pissed as hell.

 

“I had an entire crate of fiber optic cable ransacked by customs a few months ago. They cut it apart to see if there was any opium getting smuggled in. Couldn’t use any of it.”

 

Maxwell snorted.

 

“That’s- that’s not really the same. But that still fucking sucks.”

 

“Fucking again, huh? We barely even know each other.”

 

Maxwell gave him a look, half-exasperated and half-amused. Heero smirked back at him.

 

He pulled to a stop across from the first address, and gestured towards the stucco villa.

 

“Location number one. You’re at least forty-five minutes from the palace. If the traffic is light.”

 

“That sounds fucking amazing right now,” Duo muttered, and then groaned. “But probably not in reality. Are any of these closer?”

 

Heero shrugged and looked over the list.

 

“Yeah. A few.”

 

It took them another two hours to work through the list, and while a few were promising, for the most part, Maxwell looked intensely dissatisfied. After the last address they looked at - a gated community that, as Maxwell remarked, looked more like Florida than Oman, Heero asked him why he wanted out of the palace so badly.

 

Maxwell shrugged.

 

“I dunno. I just… I feel like a pet? Like I’m always on display or… It’s weird. I mean, I get it - living it up in a palace should be cool. But I just… I want my own space? I want to know there’s somewhere I can  _ go _ that’s just mine? Where I don’t have people watching me?”

 

Heero thought back to the dossier, to Maxwell’s arrest in Russia. He had been in prison for nearly two weeks, awaiting a trial, before his family had orchestrated his release. 

 

He could imagine that weighed heavily on Maxwell’s need for his own space, on his desire for privacy. Even just two weeks in a Russian prison was enough to make most people desperate for escape. Living in a palace was a far cry from a prison, but it was still a cage.

 

“Dinner?”

 

“Um… are you  _ asking _ me out to dinner or…?”

 

Heero rolled his eyes.

 

“Yes. I’m asking you out to dinner.”

 

“Oh.”

 

Maxwell looked him over, gnawing on his lower lip as he considered the offer.

 

“Yeah. Sure. That sounds nice.”

 

It wasn’t the most enthusiastic response he could have gotten, but Heero could work with that.

 

“How do you feel about Indian food?” Heero asked.

 

“I love it.”

 

Heero took him to Mumtaz Muhal, one of Heero’s favorite restaurants. It was located on a hill, overlooking the city, and now that it was dusk, the white stucco walls glowed.

 

“Cool place,” Maxwell said, grinning a little as the valet took the car and they walked up the drive.

 

Heero felt inordinately glad that Maxwell liked the architecture - it was clean and modern, a riff on traditional Mughal buildings, and likely not at all something that a fan of great European art had a preference for.

 

Maxwell continued to look impressed with the interior, and when they were led to seats on the balcony, the view of the city made him whistle.

 

“Damn. This is amazing.”

 

“The food is almost as good as the view,” Heero said.

 

Maxwell smirked and arched his eyebrows.

 

“ _ I _ will be the judge of that,” he said, and made a show of snapping open his menu.

 

-o-

 

It was surprisingly easy to talk to Maxwell. Aside from his penchant for inappropriate adverbs - or maybe even  _ because _ of it - he was charming and knowledgeable about far more than art. They had a lively debate about their least favorite European airports, and when Heero told Maxwell that he was originally from Denver - true for both his cover identity and his own - they started to argue about who was a more pathetic team, the Colorado Rockies or Maxwell’s home team of the Los Angeles Dodgers. Heero, of course, insisted the Dodgers were far,  _ far _ worse. They talked books - Heero read a lot of history, a holdover from his time dating Trowa at Yale, and Maxwell seemed to have similar tastes. 

 

They spent nearly two hours at the restaurant, finishing the meal with a dessert of fresh fruit, and then Maxwell insisted of picking up the check.

 

“ _ I _ have an expense account,” he said as he swiped the bill from Heero’s hands. “Let me use it.”

 

Maxwell seemed to have an underlying bitterness in regards to his situation - both the living quarters  _ and _ the expense account - that made Heero wonder just how long the man would last in the employ of the Vice Minister of Culture.

 

He hoped it was long enough to prove useful.

 

As Heero drove them back towards the palace, he decided to make a detour. Maxwell was unfamiliar enough with Muscat that he didn’t realize it until Heero had put the SUV in park.

 

“Where are we?” he asked, looking out at the dark city streets.

 

“My place.” Heero pointed at the narrow, four-storey stucco building across the street.

 

“Uh huh.” Maxwell gave him a long, considering look. “I thought you said we didn’t know each other that well yet.”

 

Heero smirked and opened his door.

 

“I thought you might want to see what an apartment in Muscat looks like compared to a  _ palace _ .”

 

Maxwell frowned, but he got out of the car and followed Heero across the street and up the stairs.

 

The apartment was small - small enough that Heero had had to leave it some nights, when he felt trapped, suffocated by the weight of everything he had done and everything he was  _ willing _ to do - but it was clean, modern, and safe.

 

Maxwell looked around, face neutral.

 

“I like the shower,” he finally said, leaning against the open door to the bathroom and gesturing at the large, walk-in shower and the clear glass wall that divided it from the rest of the bathroom.

 

Heero leaned against the opposite side of the frame, his legs against Maxwell’s.

 

“It’s one of the only redeeming features,” Heero agreed.

 

Maxwell’s lips twitched into a smirk.

 

“Show me the bedroom,” he said, looking Heero in the eyes.

 

Heero smirked himself.

 

“So we know each other well enough for fucking, after all?”

 

Maxwell snorted and stood up to his full height, slightly taller than Heero as he leaned against the door.

 

“You took me out for Indian food. You’re not fucking me tonight  _ or _ tomorrow.”

 

Heero laughed at that, and Maxwell grinned.

 

He leaned close and brushed his lips over Heero’s, soft and teasing.

 

Heero kissed him back, the thrill of sensation that swept through him anything but manufactured. He parted his lips, and Maxwell’s tongue swept inside his mouth, hot and confident, exploring and taunting.

 

Somehow, Heero’s hands ended up around Maxwell’s waist, under his shirt, smoothing over his bare back.

 

Maxwell groaned and shifted closer, pressing Heero back against the doorjamb.

 

“You know,” Heero said when they broke for air, “we can fuck without me fucking you.”

 

“Yeah, I know,” Maxwell grinned at him. “But you still haven’t shown me your bedroom.”

 

Heero pulled Maxwell after him, down the short hall and into the dark room. He flicked on a light and then pushed Maxwell down onto the mattress, joining him and giving Maxwell all of five seconds to look at the room before Heero was straddling him and pulling at his clothes.

 

Maxwell laughed, arching up to kiss Heero again, and started to divest Heero of his clothes.

 

By the time they were naked, Maxwell’s laughter had faded to broken gasps and moans of pleasure, as Heero discovered the spots that made him curl closer, shivering and trembling, eyes dark and desperate, cheeks and chest flushed bright with arousal.

 

It was Maxwell, though, who rolled them, who put an end to Heero’s torment by wrapping a hand around both of their straining erections, stroking unsteadily while he and Heero bucked together, lips meeting in breathless, groaning kisses. 

 

They came almost in unison, Maxwell just after Heero, and they lay together in the mess, coming down from the high of orgasm, staring up at the ceiling, bodies tangled together.

 

“So, when you take me on a tour of these other apartments, is this going to be included?” Maxwell joked.

 

Heero snorted and shifted, folding his hands under his head and turning to look at the other man.

 

“No. But I  _ do _ give repeat tours of my apartment to special guests.”

 

“Oh yeah?” Maxwell rolled over onto his side and smirked down at Heero. “Am I special enough?”

 

“Are you willing to admit the Dodgers are garbage?”

 

Maxwell groaned theatrically, and fell back down onto the mattress.

 

“Dude, the Rockies are  _ awful _ . I do not understand how you can fucking defend them! They’re like… a minor league baseball team!”

 

Heero, who had absolutely no feelings towards professional sports, let alone baseball, tried his best to look irritated. His cover cared far, far more about sports that he ever could.

 

“Take that back.”

 

Maxwell arched an eyebrow.

 

“Yeah? Or what?”

 

Heero leaned over him and licked at the drying cum on Maxwell’s torso. He shivered.

 

“Or you’ll do that?” Maxwell laughed, and then groaned when Heero bit down on his nipple.

 

“No, if you don’t take it back, I’ll  _ stop _ ,” Heero retorted.

 

He slid one hand up Duo’s thigh, scraping the skin with his short fingernails, and Maxwell arched into him.

 

“Ugh, fuck you, man. That feels incredible.”

 

“Mm.” Heero agreed, doing it again. “So, take it back. Or-” He lifted his hand away, and Maxwell glared at him.

 

After a moment, he huffed angrily.

 

“Fine. The Rockies aren’t a minor league team.”

 

Heero replaced his hand, moving it towards Maxwell’s groin and teasing his still-soft cock.

 

This, he reflected as Maxwell shifted against him, spreading his legs and looking at Heero with his dark eyes, might not be the worst mission he had ever had after all.

 

-o-

  
  


What happens next????

 

Well, it’s unlikely that I will write it. I hope I will, but, in the depressingly realistic scenario that I don’t:

 

After several months, there’s a palace coup, with both Sayyid’s getting killed and Heero only barely managing to save Duo, who gets injured in the process. Duo gets sent to the Army Medical base in Germany, Heero tags along and while there meets Wufei - Wufei and Duo were a  _ thing _ for a while back in Paris - and also ends things with Duo. Heero realizes that working for the CIA is so, so not for him, and he moves back to the US and starts to work for the ACLU - putting his Yale law degree to good use. While there, he crosses paths with Wufei again, and the two fall in love. They will eventually get married, and will, as part of that, ask both Duo and Trowa to be their best men. This, of course, leads Duo and Trowa back into each other’s lives and, in the end, brings them back together for their happily ever after.

 

But. That’s another story.

 

A little more backstory, however - after UNC, Trowa goes off to Yale for grad school (American History PhD) and while there he meets Heero, who is a law student, as well as Relena. Heero and Trowa date, end up moving in together, and spend three years very happy together before Heero graduates and is offered a job with the CIA. A little background on Heero - he was an Army Ranger, then used the GI Bill to go to school; his father and step-father were both military guys and when Relena’s father taps Heero for work with the CIA, he plays up Heero’s sense of duty. So Heero joins, and for a year he’s commuting from Virginia to Mass, to see Trowa, until he’s finally sent on his first overseas mission. He has to do some thoroughly unpleasant shit, and when he gets home, he ends things with Trowa - telling him, though, the truth: that he’s a covert operative for the CIA and he doesn’t want Trowa mixed up in any of this, that he doesn’t want to keep anything from Trowa either. So, they part on… not awful terms. Not great, either. 

 

Heero has more assignments, and then finds himself in Oman, which is where the story above takes place.

 

Curious about Duo and how he got there?

 

Duo and Trowa date for their last two years of university, but then, on graduation day, Duo’s estranged father shows up and they fight, Duo goes out and gets incredibly drunk and cheats on Trowa. They end things, rather badly. Duo goes off to London for the summer - internship again - and while there he runs into Quatre. Quatre, who Trowa was in love with for so long and who used to be Duo’s roommate at Le Rosey, who outed Duo and got him kicked out/abandoned by his father. They sort of have a fling - Duo is going through quite the self-destructive phase. Then, in the fall, they part ways and Duo goes to the Sorbonne. He ends up living in an apartment across from Wufei, who works for the International Monetary Fund and is the sort of kept man of Treize -  a wealthy, older, married man. Eventually, Wufei and Duo become involved. But then Wufei gets a job offer in New York and takes it; Duo goes to work at the Hermitage with his old mentor, Howard, and gets into trouble there… and takes the job in Oman as an escape.

 

_ After _ Oman, Duo will wander for a bit, ending up in Spain for a while where he and Quatre cross paths yet again and Quatre falls in love while Duo… realizes he’s probably never felt as close to anyone as he did with Trowa and he’s probably destined to end up alone.

 

However, he gets a call - the MET is looking for a curator - and he jumps at the chance (it’s now something like 2020 and everyone is in their mid-late 30s). In New York, he is reunited with the now engaged Heero and Wufei, who introduce him to Heero’s old flame, the published author and well known historian/ assistant professor at Columbia, Trowa Barton. Things are awkward as hell for a very long time. Especially because Ralph - remember Ralph, who wanted to be the first out Senator and possibly President? - comes back into the picture and he and Trowa date.

 

But then, after the wedding, after a lot of time spent together and some really meaningful dancing at the reception, Duo’s dad dies and he goes home for the funeral, to figure out… who he even is anymore. Trowa insists on going with him. And it’s a week of complete hell. But we meet Solo. Who, it turns out, isn’t all that amazing.

 

Eventually, back in New York, Trowa realizes that Ralph is  _ amazing _ , just… not for him. And he and Duo try to date again. And just when everything is looking great, Quatre shows up. Ready to win Duo over. Except Duo thinks Quatre wants Trowa, and he also thinks Trowa is still - always has been - in love with Quatre. So he tries to gracefully get out of the picture, while Quatre is after him and Trowa - well, he’s happy to see Quatre but he doesn’t still love him - tries to win Duo back.

 

It all ends happily - Heero and Wufei very, very happy together, Trowa and Duo together, and Ralph and Quatre introduced and  _ very _ interested in each other.

 

So. Anyway. Yay. The End.

 

Now you know the story of the story closest to my heart.

  
  
  
  



End file.
